My ear was pressed to the bottom of a drinking glass, which rested against a thin hotel wall that separated my room from theirs. I heard muted voices—Lucia’s heels clicking on the tile floor, laughter, and the squeak of bedsprings. None of these sounds were made clearer by using the drinking glass.
A chest-high ornamental steel railing separated my balcony from theirs and I slipped over noiselessly. Their drapes were drawn, yet there was a three-inch gap where they were not joined. The maid service had left the sliding glass door slightly open. An aluminum screen door was between them and me. I crawled like a gecko toward the gash in the curtain. Dim light shined from a nightstand.
“Salud,” he said. They clinked wine glasses as they stood by the bed.
Why was I torturing myself? Sometimes images we conjure in our imagination have a modest foundation in reality. Other times reality makes imaginings seem puny in comparison. My mind wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
The nightstand light was perfect. Half the pleasure in lovemaking comes from observing details and I have never enjoyed fucking in the dark. The lover set Lucia’s glass on the nightstand and took her into his arms. My hands were clapped together like a prayer pillow and I rested my head on them. The tile on the balcony was damp and smelled of mildew. They began kissing.
Lucia was wearing my favorite salmon colored skirt, and the Indian blouse fronted with fake jewels and gold embroidery. Her also wore black high-heels and the ankle bracelet we found in Istanbul. Her skirt rode up as his hands explored and fingers slid inside her panty. Still kissing her, he slipped them over her ass. She let them fall to her ankles and kicked them aside.
I felt as if I were hovering above my body. Lucia’s lover climbed out of his pants and his erection jutted—a thick, shadowy protuberance pulsating against Lucia’s lower tummy. She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back on her arms. He kneeled before her, lifted the skirt and used his thumbs to separate the dark pubic hair from her pussy lips. Then he found her sensitive bud with his flicking tongue. She still wore the black heels. She ran fingers through his hair as he lapped, occasionally lifting her hips and letting a deep moan escape from her open mouth. After a few minutes, she pushed him away and scooted to the middle of the bed.
The lover splayed his legs beneath hers and lifted her knees. He lifted her blouse up and she reached back to undo her bra. Then he greedily sucked in one of her tall, brown nipples.
“Ayyy,” she moaned. Her hips were moving, trying to find him—to get him inside.
As he sucked, his hips were also moving, probing, and finding her. I watched his ass cheeks flex as he pushed in.
“Huh,” she gasped and her ankle bracelet chimed, “Uh, uh, uhhh,” she grunted.
Their voices were an impassioned symphony. Lucia’s subsequent vocalizations harmonized with her lover’s tantric moan.
“Oh my god, baby, you feel good,” he said.
She answered with a slow, methodical churning of hips. I knew just how he felt. What was I thinking? Seeing this was killing me. He paused to take another stiff brown nipple into his mouth. The ankle bracelet was jingling and they were kissing hungrily as he stroked back and forth. Her first orgasm trapped his cock in its grip, “Ay, ay, ay, ayyy,” she sang. The second was equally as strong, and the aftershocks were accompanied by satisfied sighs.
“Your turn, baby,” she said.
He sat up and kissed her feet, licked her calves, and then he leaned over her for another kiss. The softness of her tongue, combined with the movement of her hips made his balls jump as he spurted.
“Oh Jesus, awww,” he cried out, much as I had for so many years.
The backside of my hand had the imprint of tile on it. Tears escaped from my eyes. This was a lousy idea. Lucia had been a good wife and a good mother. The thought of separating or divorcing was inconceivable.
They lay side-by-side and his cock rested damp and heavy over her thigh. They were kissing again, and it hurt more to see them that way than it did to watch them fuck. I knew that heart rates were slowing, and their skin was losing its ruddiness. Lucia got up to go to the bathroom. She would push out his glowing, jellyfish spunk, into the toilet.
She was unaware that her mother was taking care of our daughter, Rita, and that I rode a bus and a taxi to be with her—as a surprise. Life is cruel. My life with Lucia has brought me to a twisted full-circle—from participant to observer.
When Lucia returned, they rested in each other’s arms. I sneaked back into my room, lay on the bed and stared at the soot that covered the grating of a ceiling vent. An hour later my cell phone rang.
“I just called home. Where are you?”
“Nowhere,” I answered and hung up.
I heard frenzied activity, Lucia voice quavering, “I don’t know, I don’t know, he won’t answer.”
My phone chimed over and over and finally I answered, “Where are you, baby?” She wanted to know.
“Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes,” I said, “and he had better not be with you.”
I took a cold shower, which dampened the clutter of vengeful thoughts, embarrassing tirades and self-indulgent blubbering that demanded expression.
Lucia is still a good mother, a good wife, and I am still wild about her. Does this make me a cuckold? I suppose, yet we are going to have to reach an agreement. I’m getting too old to go around on hands and knees.
Ty Spencer Vossler (MFA) currently lives in Oaxaca, Mexico with his BMW (beautiful Mexican wife) and their daughter. Vossler has published over fifty works over the past two years, including novels, many short stories, poems and essays. He attributes his originality to the fact that he shot his television over two decades ago. To see a list of Vossler’s publications, please visit his website: www.tyvossler.com.